


Combat Jack

by DexxxtroDNA



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Airplane Sex, Airplanes, Barracks, Consensual Sex, Crushes, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Metaphors, Military Kink, Military Ranks, Multi, Other, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, Shower Sex, Showerhead - Freeform, Showers, Size Difference, Size Kink, Sticky Sex, The Author Regrets Nothing, Threesome, Voyeurism, giving showerhead, the author swears they aren't completely sexually frustrated anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DexxxtroDNA/pseuds/DexxxtroDNA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life on the <i>Nemesis</i> is frustrating when all you need is a little time alone, but Hawkeye has an idea that might solve her problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combat Jack

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ultraparallelism: or, In Which Optimus and Megatron Discover that Some Paths Do Eventually Intersect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/903296) by [DexxxtroDNA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DexxxtroDNA/pseuds/DexxxtroDNA), [zuzeca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca). 



> This work is tangent to [Ultraparallelism](http://archiveofourown.org/works/903296/), specifically chapters 8 and 11. You don't strictly _need_ to read them first to enjoy this fic, but they are referenced, and contain spoilers for that fic.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [ LeggyStarscream](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LeggyStarscream/pseuds/LeggyStarscream) :)
> 
> [Pic of Hawkeye, by Dex (SFW)](https://31.media.tumblr.com/1db2388989d0a9ace9d1ff17369bbed8/tumblr_inline_mxn297Fup91s6ndqu.png)  
> [Hawkeye's alt](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E-2_Hawkeye)

The showers weren’t exactly the most private of places, but then again, neither were the bunks. Delta Platoon managed to make a little frag-nest out of discarded scrap and a rearranged barracks room that had gotten damaged and was _right next to_ the Pit-damned loudaft main cannons, but reserving time in it was difficult, prioritized more than one mech using it at once, and besides, Hawkeye’s wingspan didn’t exactly fit comfortably in there.

There were the quarters she shared with Nightjar - thankfully, they both got wide berths to accommodate their frames - but kicking the often-nocturnal bot out of her berth got a lot of ruffled plating and screeching in return.

So why not just do it quietly while the black ghost recharged? Sensor suites. The both of them were stuffed full of enough finely tuned surveillance pods for six mechs each. It had taken long enough for them to get used to each other’s presence to recharge. Forget self-service. There was _way_ too much interesting electromagnetic radiation going on during that sort of activity for either one of them to stay asleep while the other took care of needs.

Welcome to life on the Decepticon boat.

So Hawkeye was in the washracks -- not the ones assigned to her platoon -- during what _should_ be a break between the shifts. Solvent sprayed over her backstruts, rotors lightly clacking as the jets moved them. She was thankful for her height for once, even though the spigot was _below_ her helm, as usual, for a very particular reason. If she turned toward the wall, flared her wings out enough to hide her arms but still look like she was just stretching and trying to get solvent into the seams, then she could - hopefully - have some semblance of privacy.

Unfortunately, great ideas are rarely hatched in only one processor. There was what appeared, to her secondary surveillance radar, a group of three flyers in the corner under the washrack with a faulty spray regulator. She couldn’t keep from running the tactical advantage of that position through her subprocessors. Corner was defensible, it couldn’t be seen from the door, but the tinny slosh of the busted showerhead appeared to be a significant detraction.

Focus, she told herself. She only had a few breems to make it back before her duty shift started. She stroked at her interface panelling seams as she accessed oft-used memory files, full of fantasies.

Muffled moans floated out of the back corner of the room. She tried not to notice, but damn it all to the Pit, it had been _forever_ since she’d gotten any sort of action.

She replayed her memories of Soundwave, walking silently down the hall, hips tilting back and forth with every step, and thought about what her hands might feel like on them. The time he directly handed her the data cable and they touched, and what those long, slender digits might be able to do with her frame.

A badly stifled keen of pure pleasure finally tore her attention away long enough to sneak a peek of the trio. So _that’s_ why they were using that corner. One mech had his legs spread wide as he leaned back, wings fluttering against the second sitting in the corner, while the third had the showerhead in hand, connected to a generous length of hose. The mech in the middle bit at his lower lip plating as the third mech fiddled with the flow regulator and increased the pressure.

Well. She’d have to remember that particular washrack.

All of them were so focused on each other that they failed to notice that Hawkeye still had the corner of an optic on them. She realized she was being a complete voyeur at this point and tried to refocus on her own attempts at gratification when she began wondering if a certain other Communications mech had used his advanced sensor suites to spy on lovers before. A quiet shriek echoed in the space before a slow rhythm of repetitive clanks began to build up. At least they really wouldn’t be paying any attention to what she’d be up to, but it was still distracting. She wasn’t jealous that they were having their own fun, more that she had one hell of a crush on her superior officer (Nightjar would tease her _forever_ about it if she knew) and she couldn’t find a place for half a cycle to frag herself and release all the pent-up sexual tension.

She let her off hand drift over her chestplates, imagining it to be one of Soundwave’s tentacles as she rubbed the palm of her hand over her interface array cover. Eventually, it folded aside and her spike jumped to attention, solvent falling on the sensitive tip.

Soundwave was always beautiful to watch in the skies, completely in control as the air currents rushed below his long, graceful wings.

Her helm came to rest against the cold metal wall as one hand reached up and back to grab at a propeller hub and fingered along what she could reach of the rotors. He’d be able to play with those in ways she couldn’t, she realized, as her twin engines kicked into a higher RPM.

She wrapped her hand around her spike, wishing the digits were more slender, and pumped, taking off and climbing, rushing upward to find the place where it felt like there wasn’t air to pull through her propellers anymore. Waiting for the stall.

She imagined long legs spread wide, the taste of lubricant in her mouth, a tinny recording of someone unimportant screaming her name. It felt like her engines choked out and stalled as she stifled her moan and overloaded. Falling in a corkscrew spin, instruments and processor whirling as she pulled out of it, low to the ground.

She scrambled, trying to ride the updraft of her first overload, knowing through long experience it wouldn’t do more to take the edge off and she’d be back in the same scrapheap a few hours later. Rubbing at the rim of her valve, suddenly wishing her faucet was on the end of a hose as well, she imagined slim fingers slipping into her, curling at just the right spot, tentacles winding around her legs. The end of one tentacle crept up her backstruts to play with her wing joints and propellers again, while the other released its tendrils at the tip and played with her spike and exterior valve nodes. He was patient, persistent as she whispered at him to keep going, she was almost there. Her valve clamped down rhythmically as his digits _kept_ stroking just right, not too much, gently bringing her down to land without so much as a bump from landing gear hitting tarmac.

The cool wall became a mask she rested her helm against, the mingling of electromagnetic fields intimate. She didn’t have to speak, and neither did he.

She listened to the sound of her deep ventilations, as she slowly spread her awareness outward again. Solvent beat down on oversensitive components and she folded them away. There were sounds of wet plating scraping against each other, soft clanks and needy cries, as she did her best to turn off the taps without making the metal squeak and exit quietly. She stood under the dryers, satisfied for a while.

Now she just had to go report for duty to her commanding officer. Soundwave.

**Author's Note:**

> Reference Links:
> 
> [Hawkeye's alt](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E-2_Hawkeye)  
> [Soundwave's alt](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MQ-9_Reaper)  
> [Nightjar's alt](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/F117)  
> [Aircraft spin. Physics is sexy ;)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spin_\(flight\))  
> [Secondary surveillance radar](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Secondary_surveillance_radar) because radar is cool.


End file.
